Sensory Notes 1: Backpacking
Okay, I donât quite have the full write-up of my big backpacking/hunting trip done yet. But! I do have another thing from the trip yâall might find interesting.
One of my biggest issues in writing is describing the world well (I usually get it in there by the third or fourth draft, but first draft? Nope.) So, to try and kickstart my brain into better description land Iâve started making sensory lists whenever Iâm in a new place/doing a new thing. Been doing it for about a year and it is quite fun and very helpful. If anyone else finds these helpful I can post more!
Feel free to use these as prompts/details for your own writing if you like!
Setting: Colorado, Meeker Flattops Wilderness, Wilderness, Tundra-ish, Pine Forests, Extinct Volcano, Camping, Backpacking, Elevations between 9,000 and 11,500 feet, trail that less than 100 people hike every year because it is that hard and that far out.
Also, trigger warning for animal death mention in one of these bullet points. I put them as numbers so you can skip it if needed. Itâs number 43.
Dirt caked in your palm lines, not just in your nails. Like the Earth is trying to make your future extra clear.
The blood rush/dizziness you get when you take off your heavy pack. You almost feel like youâre about to float away, and your first few steps are rather wobbly.
The sting of blisters forming as your sock rubs you the wrong way, but you canât do anything about it because to fix it youâd have to stop and take off your pack and then your shoes and socks, maybe drag out a first aid kit, then get it all packed up and put back on. Better to just power through and deal with it at camp.
The smallness you feel staring at a 360degree view of canyons and valleys and mountains. Thereâs so much world out there, fading away in atmospheric mist in every direction.
The acknowledgement of a wildfire, but knowing itâs far enough off in the distance to never effect you.
The violently colored flowers in hues that almost seem unnatural. Like near ultra-violet daisies.
The sound of the wind racing around the mountains, even though it isnât hitting your area, is a constant background noise.
The steady, building burn in your muscles. It hits your thighs and lungs going uphill, and your calves and thighs going down.
Your heart racing at speeds you didnât know it could get to. That it probably SHOULDNâT get to.
Your chest demanding air but it never feels like it can expand enough.
The momentary blip of âwell fuckâ when your boot slips on some loose rock on a cliff trail.
The clean, empty taste of volcanic spring water. Makes you taste all the minerals and purifiers in tap water quite a bit more when you get back.
The strange sense of security you get being in your tent at night, even though it doesnât offer much actual protection against large critters.
The annoyingly confined feeling of a mummy bag when normally you sprawl out all over the place when sleeping.
Having your limbs go numb from dehydration and over exertion. Shaking and tingling and your hands feel like clubs. Takes ages for you to fully come back together.
The indescribable feeling you get standing at the edge of a volcanic crater lake that no one has ever found the bottom of. Dipping your toes in feels like inviting something ancient into yourself.
The color of a volcanic crater lake isnât like any other alpine lake. Itâs a deep crystal blue with an undertone of green, especially around the edges.
Hearing a cracking in the forest at night when youâre about to go to the bathroom and deciding you donât really need to shit THAT bad.
Waking up to the chattering of squirrels that are very annoyed about the placement of your tent.
Watching a little hummingbird mistaking all your brightly colored camping equipment for flowers. Heâs so rarely seen people he doesnât care about them and will land right on you.
Sweat running down your back like a garden hose on a hard hike.
Never quite knowing the right path when going off trail. Is this way going to have a log thatâs too big to get over? Will it get too steep? Where can you safely put your feet?
Your lips slowly chapping and cracking as you dehydrate. You know you shouldnât lick them but you canât help it.
Breathing through your nose when going uphill is not an option. Not much of an option going downhill either.
The warmth of cooking a good freeze dried meal pack is almost better than the meal itself. Curling up around it as it cooks, soaking up the heat.
There is no way to get completely comfortable at night. You wake up and shuffle around constantly throughout the night.
The freedom of having a warm enough night that you can unzip your sleeping bag and use it like a regular blanket rather than being constricted all night.
The sting of a cut on the tip of your finger. It isnât much more than a paper cut, but you canât stop bumping it and opening it up again, and you know itâs been jammed full of dirt long before you could ever get the neosporin and bandaids out.
Youâre vaguely aware that you smell terrible, but it built up so slowly you donât quite notice. Until you stick your head inside your sleeping bag and then OH BOY.
The constant annoyance of bugs eventually fades and then you find yourself staring at the mosquitoes figuring every good hiking trip needs a blood sacrifice or two.
The slow building burn of the sun baking your feet inside your boots.
The little jarring up your arm as the metal tip of your hiking pole hits rock.
The ease of getting lost because you never bothered looking behind you when walking in and wow it all looks different once you turn around.
The lurch you feel in your gut as you stand in the edge of a cliff, the whole world spread out beneath you.
The squelching, sticking feeling of walking through a muddy bog.
Walking through a bog and knowing if you fall into an unseen bog hole youâll likely never get out alive.
The strange security of grabbing onto plants you know would never do anything for you if you fell, yet thereâs comfort in grabbing them anyways.
Somehow, no matter how much you plan, you end up with far too much food. You wonder if the local critters like freeze dried spaghetti so you donât have to carry it back up the trail.
Marking your progress on the trail by one large trail side rock at a time. Ones you can sit on, ones in the shade, ones that just stand out. Even if you canât make it to the end of the trail, you can make it to that next rock.
The utter relief when a cloud blocks the sun for a minute or two while youâre hiking, giving a tiny respite from the beating sun.
Rain sprinkles while hiking are the best thing ever. Little cool pin pricks helping whisk away your body heat, but not enough to make you want to pull out a raincoat.
The building desperation of knowing you need to sit, to really rest, but youâre on the side of a cliff and thereâs no damn place to do so.
The ever present, prickling knowledge that a horse once fell off this trail and met a very violent end on the way down. They found itâs saddle impaled with its ribs.
The warmth of a campfire hiding in your clothes, then pressing into your skin as you move.
The slight give of a rotting log as you sit on it. Much more comfortable than sitting in a hard log.
The bracing nip of chill morning air as you emerge from your sleeping bag.
The quickly building warmth of the sun coming over the cliffs, finally rising for you even though itâs been up for hours.
Hearing the sheep baaaaing all night and listening to their dogs chase off coyotes. Youâd honestly rather a wolf was out there, because those sheep dogs can, will, and want to fight to the death for their flock.
All food is good food after about day three. Even things youâd normally hate are suddenly delicious.
The strange realization that if the world ended while you were out here, you probably wouldnât know. You canât quite decide if this is comforting or terrifying.
